


Thule-Gesellschaft

by valderys



Series: Fascist Mensaverse [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Mensa, Angst, Community: mensa_au, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What pressures might cause Rodney to become Rod? Exactly how different <i>is</i> the Mensa universe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thule-Gesellschaft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/gifts).



> Written for the Mensa Au challenge in 2007.

It's not that he wants exile. He doesn't. But when John Sheppard, PhD, PhD, part-time member of the Air National Guard, is offered a posting to Antarctica, it takes no time at all for him to say yes. And at least he's given the choice. It's a testament to his caution, to his attention to detail, and he knows it. If they knew the real John Sheppard – the misfit, the loner with the unsavoury habits, and the aberrant behaviour – if they even suspected that John Sheppard existed, he'd have been in re-education so fast his feet wouldn't have touched the ground. Or worse.

But instead John smiles, tightly, carefully, and takes the slaps on the back, and commiserating looks, as only his due. He's got a plum job, as head of the Mathematical Sciences Division, and he wouldn't have got that in the SGC Stateside for years, even with their staff attrition rates.

It's why everyone assumes he's taken the job. But even as colleagues make jokes about the undesirables that he'll have to put up with, and the frostbite, John knows that it's not even partially true. He'd take the post even if all he's put in charge of is a bunch of penguins. He's always been alone – always had to be careful. He's always been in exile. Antarctica just makes it more concrete.

And at least in Antarctica, they have helicopters.

::

 

When John sits down on the Ancient Chair, it's because he's been ordered to. He can't believe it. All this time struggling to stay under the radar, to register as normal, and just because some stupid brooch lit up green, he's suddenly the centre of attention. It serves him right though, he knows. He was careless. One casual touch to something that reminded him a little of Mom's jewellery, and he may as well have hung a sign on his chest saying, look at me! Check out my background, isn't it neat! The only thing that stops him panicking in the middle of all this mess is his security file. He's… 80% sure that there's nothing incriminating in it. At least the versions he's managed to hack into and see. But there are always layers, under layers. John wouldn't swear he's seen everything. Still. No-one's running to arrest him yet, so he'll go with the 80%.

The annoying green brooch hasn't stopped glowing yet either, and it seems to be generating some sort of force barrier. He can't make it stop. If the military hierarchy wasn't so keen for him to try the Chair, John knows they'd be just as interested in the gadget he's set off. Probably too interested. Is initialising Ancient technology a suspicious act?

He's too flustered. Too nervous. He's going to do or say something stupid. Something dangerous. John sits down in the Chair and nearly gasps when it flows smoothly back and begins to glow gently. Just like the stupid brooch.

"Think about where we are in the solar system."

The voice out in the dimness is rich and soothing, its vowels a little round, but a cheerful voice somehow, foreign, belonging to one of the international elements on the base. John doesn't recognise the man, when he swings his head wildly to one side, but he catches a flash of blue eyes, and a wide crooked smile. The man seems so pleased, so _happy_, that John is baffled for a moment. This isn't a fortuitous event, this is a potential disaster, and he frowns at the man, completely confused. But something certainly seems to happen, because the green glowing brooch goes dim, and falls off. John is so relieved he nearly smiles back. Thank god he remembers in time.

Instead, he points at the brooch and says, disingenuously, "Did I do that?"

::

 

Dr Meredith Rodney McKay – call me Rod – is Canadian. Of course he is, John thinks. He should have recognised the accent, but he'd been… distracted at the time. McKay's good. John knows his name from work both classified and unclassified, from equations so precise they've made John's mouth water. He's wanted to meet and talk, exchange ideas, for literally _years_. Even when he thought Meredith was a woman. He's terrified. What if they know?

McKay's been trying to get the different international contingents to work together. And John thinks, good luck with that. He wants it to be sarcastic, to be damning, but he finds he's almost hoping McKay will succeed, despite the danger. Surely 'Rod' must know that fraternization will be classed as dangerously unAmerican? He'll have more luck with the Europeans – some of their governments encourage such things, hoping for a bit of professional espionage. But Rod does genuinely seem to care. John wonders if Canada is some kind of paradise, or whether this is purely another angle – just another trap.

Rod's name is whispered even more widely when he and Dr Jackson succeed. Vindication. Enough rope to hang them both. _Atlantis_.

John also hears a rumour that Rod is sleeping with Colonel Carter. It explains a lot.

John keeps his head down. Keeps his subordinates hard at it. He doesn't show his pleasure, or his fear. He doesn't show his hope. He says nothing at all. He purses his lips when he's ordered on the expedition for his gene, looks sour, and doesn't argue. He's offered a bonus, and a medal. The expressions of sympathy seem genuine. It's a one way ticket. Someone must go along to keep the degenerates in line.

John is long-suffering, and talks about a sacrifice for the greater good, his intellect being stimulated by the challenge. He catches admiring, pitying looks. His credit has never been higher. He'd laugh if he thought he could risk it.

Because he's actually looking forward to it.

::

 

He's heard all the nicknames. All the rumours. How Atlantis's name is being whispered now, when people disappear. Botany Bay. Guantanamo. Be extra vigilant, or you'll be subject to transportation, abandoned in another galaxy. There's no way the expedition could take the numbers that are being claimed. John carefully doesn't think about what does happen to those who've vanished, if they exist at all.

But the scuttlebutt isn't always wrong. Atlantis is a good place to send the mavericks, the loners. The inverts who don't respond to re-education. The trouble-makers. Those whose faces don't fit. The ones who are too valuable to dispose of, but too dangerous to set free. Even in the soldiers, the marines sent to guard them, even they have a higher proportion of brown faces, of knowing eyes, of black marks. Who knows what constitutes a sentence? Or a promotion? John pretends he doesn't realise.

They walk through the Stargate together. The watchdogs and the watched. Split the difference, and John can't tell – 3.5 million light years from home, he'll be surprised if anyone can tell.

He doesn't care. He's felt her already, through the Chair. _Atlantis_. She sings to him in the night. He's been sleeping on his stomach, muffling his face in the pillow, in case he talks back. The event horizon shimmers, beckoning, and John walks through with his heart light, and his face scowling. He tries to catch no-one's eye but somehow it's Rod whom he sees, when he turns back for one last glance. The man's still grinning. Sometimes John wonders if he does anything else.

But it doesn't matter. She's there in his blood, tugging him onwards. He can't regret it, not now. It's barely a second – a second and 3.5 million light years – before he's walking out into soaring, vaulted architecture. The floor warm beneath his boots, beautiful in browns and golds. The steps stretch up into gloom, and John walks forward – how can he not? – and watches them light up blue as a summer sky, one by one by one.

::

 

They can't go home. It's a fact that has slowly permeated all the members of the Atlantis expedition. John watches, and sees the difference in the little things. He hears the botanists laugh together – Parrish sounds like a hyena, Katie Brown giggles like a schoolgirl. The geologists walk taller, although John is baffled to know why. The marines look edgy, like they expect an uprising, or a rebellion. They haven't realised yet that there's no real need.

When Atlantis shook off her watery bindings, and rose to the surface like a whale breaching, it was as though everyone took that first breath of clean air with her, not just the city alone. John watched sea water cascade from her sides, and sunlight glimmer on her spires, and it was all he could do to stay silent. He took that breath though, a big one, as soon as he could sidle out from general notice, and make his way to the nearest balcony.

Rod got there first. John still remembers his heart pounding and his hands sweating, that split second of shock when he saw broad shoulders outlined in bright light. He hadn't expected anyone else to care. Rod's _always_ smiling, and when he turned, all John could see was the gleam of teeth through the dazzle. Like a shark. And then it hit him – they were none of them ever going home, so what does it matter? What does it matter what Rod thinks? He'd walked up to the railing and he'd leaned against it, and he'd taken his breath. And Rod had leaned companionably next to him, and his smile was just a smile.

It had been the start.

::

 

They lose Colonel Sumner and Major Bates in the first week. John is wrapped up in lab work, there's so much to explore, and no time to do it in, he barely registers the commotion in the Gate Room. He works it out later, from the whispers in the mess line. From the general emails that are sent out. Not the specifics, of course, things don't work like that, not even here on Atlantis, but enough. Colonel Sumner met the natives and some of them took exception to his methods, that seems to be the short version. John is scarcely surprised. Sumner is a hard ass by reputation, but tactics that work on earth are not always going to work in a whole new galaxy. And Sumner hardly seemed to be the most flexible of thinkers – the US military doesn't encourage stuff like that.

What does surprise John is the way that things get quietly, and then not so quietly, rearranged. The next highest ranking officer is a fresh-faced, black Lieutenant, still wet behind the ears. Ford gets on well with Rod – but then, _everybody_ gets on well with Rod. John curls his lip when he thinks of that, although he can't argue. Where John has survived by forcing himself to be average, Mr Invisible, the hey-you guy, Rod has got along on his charm. He slides his way through difficult situations like a knife through butter, smoothing his path with a liberal spread of bonhomie and charisma. It's slightly unsettling, but John can't deny it works.

No, what makes this coup so different is the way the military almost seems to approve of it. The way Rod has them thinking it's all their own idea. Or maybe that's Elizabeth Weir's job – she's stepped into the zone pretty damn quick, from the obscurity of linguistics, or is it anthropology? John can never keep all those soft sciences straight in his head. Rumour has it she was something in politics until she annoyed the wrong people – or maybe just failed to please the right ones. Doesn't matter much, John thinks with a sneer, she's still stuck her head above the parapet. She'll be the first one in the firing line.

He expects things to blow up when she offers some of the natives sanctuary. Sanctuary! It's such an outdated concept. But apparently some of the… Athosians tried to rescue Sumner, and the grunts consider it a debt or something. John's decided he has no idea how the military mind works. He thanks his lucky stars that he never risked properly enlisting. Not even to fly. He wouldn't have lasted a year.

But things pretty much settle down after that. John's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

::

 

His lungs are burning. It's all that running, to his quarters and back. Not daring to slow down, not daring to think about what he's doing. He's not as fit as he'd like to think he is. But he has it now. The brooch. The stupid brooch that first got him into this mess.

John shudders to a stop and stares into the sea of shifting black. There are faces in there, his mother weeping, his father shouting. His skin is all pins and needles. He needs to run away, except there's nowhere he can go. This device only initialises to one person. Apparently. And he needs to get rid of this creature because there's no-one else who can risk this. Who can do this. It's stay Mr Average guy, or end up as Mr Soon-To-Be-Dead Guy. The mathematics of this equation take no effort at all.

Surely the generator can't last much longer. It has to be now. It _has_ to be. John shivers, and rubs his arms just once, before hooking the brooch onto his shirt. Then he walks forward. There's a distant sound of shouting, but John can't pay attention to that. If he thinks about anything else, he won't do this.

The creature isn't black on the inside – it's beautiful. Like a sea full of stars. John keeps moving, and he can't feel anything, but is it his imagination, or is his breathing getting tight? The MALP is in front of him, its power drained. The generator is in a large briefcase. John can throw it through the wormhole, easy as pie. Of course, he can. He doesn't need to be Doug Flutie to throw a little pass like that.

Is it his imagination, or are things getting dimmer in here? He's running out of time… He throws with all his strength, and it certainly looks like it goes through, but the sparkles in the air are getting closer now, and he can't breath. It's hard to say. Well, Mr Soon-To-Be-Dead Guy, you did your best, John thinks, surprised at how good that makes him feel.

He's almost happy when he passes out, and how twisted is that?

::

 

Rod uses Radek as his stalking horse. It should be funny, sending in a scruffy European – Czech, Radek reminds him – scientist to do his dirty work, except that it really isn't. Radek looks like the classic mad professor. John stares down his nose, and would sneer at the stereotype, if he didn't know how competent Radek actually is. He sneers anyway, because he doesn't want anyone to pry, doesn't want anyone even _trying_ to find out what makes John Sheppard tick. It's too transparent, and it's too soon. They're cut off from earth, yes, but that's all they're cut off from – none of the prejudices have changed, none of the thought patterns. There's still a political officer, and they still don't know who it is.

Radek mutters in Czech when he's annoyed. John finds it somewhat endearing.

"With my intellect, it's best that I work alone," John says constantly. And Radek will say, "Yes, John, but…" And then they will argue. It's rather invigorating. One day, in exasperation, John turns on Radek and shouts, "Why did you come on this mission anyway? It can't just be to plague me!"

He gets a silence that isn't nearly as easy as he's come to expect from Radek, and John looks at him, startled. Really looks at him. Radek takes off his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. "Ah – but I am Kalderash, umm, gypsy, John. I thought you knew," he says, quietly, and John gapes at him. No, he didn't know.

It doesn't matter either, although it does explain a few things. John and Radek still argue, but it's more boisterous now, more energetic – and friendlier. Like dogs rolling in a field, after all the pleasantries have been exchanged. Still fighting, but for the joy of it.

And neither of them mention Rod, although John is waiting for it. Radek is Rod's unofficial second-in-command, after all. John is head of Mathematics. And Rod is… Rod is unofficially in charge, although Lieutenant Ford probably thinks he actually is, and so does Elizabeth Weir.

John is braced for the approach, and wary. Just because Radek trusts the man is no reason that John should. John's got secrets. Not a dubious bloodline he can't hide. An exchanged smile on a balcony is not a promise, or a test. John's not going to fall for _anything_ so easily.

::

 

The view through the mess-hall window is breath-taking in the sun. John can hear the distant laughter of _Lanteans_ out on the South Pier, as the Athosians have already begun to call them. It's a hopeful sound. He sticks his nose back into his re-constituted potato, and his lap-top. None of that's for him.

His skin prickles from exposure and John wishes he could have sat in his usual corner. It happens to be taken, but he could have come back later. The mess after hours is more conducive to a quick meal anyway. So it doesn't surprise him when a small group ambles over and takes the other seats at his table. Two sets of military boots, and a pair in soft native animal hide. It does surprise him when one of them begins a conversation, with a kick to his shoe, and a, "So, doc, what do you think?"

John looks up in bewilderment, and freezes. He didn't expect a group attack. He closes his mouth as Ford – the titular leader of the whole expedition – blinks his brown eyes innocently. A swift glance round gives him Teyla, the leader of the Athosians, sitting calmly, and Rod, who's smirking, as usual. He's been blind-sided – why does he never see these things coming?

"What? I don't…" John says, pulling himself together, finding his barriers. There's danger here, but fear is making him stupid, he can't…

Ford smiles. "You gonna be part of my team? Rod thinks you should."

"He won't have checked his email yet," says Rod, cheerfully, and John knows that he's lying. John's _always_ checking his email. Rod hasn't sent one.

"But I'm not… I don't do fieldwork," John stammers, cursing his own idiocy at having been caught out like this. He stares daggers at Rod, but the man has the hide of a rhinoceros, death threats don't appear to phase him. Everything slides off that slick, shiny exterior.

"Doc," Ford continues blithely, "We need another scientist – Rod here can't do everything. So I asked him who he wants to be on the team and you're it. You're his choice. See you in the gym."

He gets up and waves a little before striding off. John watches him go with a feeling close to despair. Ford's youth, and his inexperience, means he has to rely on people. He relies on Rod. And Rod has picked John. It shows exactly how irresponsible Rod can be. Or how Machiavellian.

John stares at Rod, wondering what the man really wants. How long it'll take before he comes clean. If he ever does.

Rod smiles – of course, he does. He says, "I wanted to say thank you. For saving all our lives with your quick thinking. I was impressed."

Teyla sits there, and then bows her head towards him, in a gesture of respect. John recoils, only slightly, but he can't stop himself. Rod's smile widens.

This is meant to be a _reward_. So it's true what they say – no good deed goes unpunished.

John hates that he only has himself to blame.

::

 

The galaxy is full of life-sucking vampires. Huh, John thinks, just like home. But he's still surprised that the majority of the expedition doesn't even know what Sumner woke up. Rod is breezy, talks about the need to know. His eyes twinkle, with the sort of repressed glee that only schoolboys and the completely insane seem to manage. John is not reassured.

He wants to ask – why me? It can't just be because John threw himself into an energy cloud to save them all. Well, it could be, but John's betting that Rod has more than one motive – Rod is the sort of guy who _always_ has more than one motive. But Rod isn't saying – he's slippery that way. Instead, he takes John to the firing range and shows him how to load and unload both a Beretta and a P-90. The paper targets at the end of the room flap slightly in the tiny breath of air. The door is open.

The guns feel cold to John, his hands clumsy around their metal bodies, but Rod is patient with him. The very ease with which Rod handles firearms ought to disturb him, but somehow it doesn't. This feels real, this feels like the real Rodney McKay. Rod describes teaching himself how to shoot when he first joined the SGC, about how bad he was when he began. Something about this, these movements learned by rote, such finely flawed perfection, this makes Rod human – not just one more cog in the political regime. John wants to relax, to let go, surrounded by more sleeping death than he's ever seen, which is ironic, really, and keys him up all the more. He can't relax. He can never relax. If he's learned nothing else, he's surely learned that.

He tenses when Rod takes the lesson to the range itself. First Rod shuts the door, and then it's just the two of them alone in the silent room. Rod arranges John's stance, before standing behind him to show him the right grip. John realises he is painfully aware of Rod, his body lean and hard, his arms brushing John's as he holds up the gun. John smiles to himself then, a grimace, and concentrates on the feel of the metal, on squeezing the trigger, tries not to think about the man leaning against him, breathing along the side of his neck. Rod smells of soap and gun-oil, of forbidden fruit. It's torture, but John's been through it before. Not so close, or so immediate, but he's been tempted before – how could he not? He thinks of bright blue skies. Helicopters droning far above him, and he's there with them, soaring, the stick juddering in his hand. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, and tastes salt and blood. The pain centres him.

He fires. And Rod laughs. Chuckles right into his ear, stirring the hair, goosebumps chasing up and down his spine.

"You're a natural," whispers Rod, "I wondered."

John steps to one side. His hands are clenched into fists. Rod's eyes look pale and grey, and the hair on his arms is blond in the harsh light. Rod cocks his head a little and doesn't smile. It's the only thing that stops John walking away.

"I'm not," John says, his voice hoarse. Not desperate, not crazy. Not an enemy if the state. "My intelligence is too valuable to waste on pointless heroics."

_Then_ Rod smiles. Naturally. "We'll just have to make sure that all our heroics have a point to them, won't we?"

"It's not as easy as that," says John, willing Rod to understand. Hoping against hope that what Rod has seen, has obviously deduced, won't be enough to convict him, should Rod choose to have him arrested.

"It never is," says Rod, his tone iron under velvet, "But that should never stop us trying."

::

 

When he was a child John wanted to fly more than anything in the world. He had pictures of B52s on his walls, and models of Hurricanes and Spitfires hanging from his ceiling. He studied hard, and it was all so easy. His natural aptitude for mathematics made his teachers proud, his application and dedication made his mother happy. It was a fairytale. Once upon a time, you could say. Once upon a time, John Sheppard was a real boy. And then he grew up.

John watches Rod all the time now. He can't help himself. First through fear of arrest, and then later, because he can.

Rod is all rounded corners – all the spikiness worn down, or covered over, or pillowed. His shoulders curve slightly, and his cheeks are round and soft like a baby's. His belly is a gentle cushion covering lean muscle. His personality is syrup, coating the bitter pill.

Rod hates to be wrong. John has observed it, has noticed how Rod hides his irritation, masks his exasperation, lets it turn into something else. He's not sure anyone else has seen that. He's not sure anyone else is looking though – that's part of Rod's camouflage, but now that he is looking, John's pretty sure that's all it is. Just a disguise.

John wonders what the real Meredith Rodney McKay is like.

Now he's looking, though, now he sees… Now he can't _un-see_. He catches the flex of Rod's biceps out of the corner of his eye when they train. He glimpses sheened skin glistening with water in the showers. He stares at the spoon that Rod lifts to his lips, bright with blue jello. But he doesn't lick his lips. He doesn't swallow, or close his eyes, or any one of a thousand little tells. John has his own defences. His own survival techniques.

John remembers Billy Lopez in 10th grade. He remembers his quick grin, blinding white in a tanned face. Billy was a track star, all slim hips and long thighs, and John remembers Billy leaning over one day, under the bleachers, and cupping John's face, running his hand down John's arm. That's all. The shiver John got, like he'd been branded, and the heat of it. The next second John stood up and left, but he's never forgotten. The following year Billy was gone, and no-one ever mentioned his name again. John runs now, to keep himself in shape. It's solitary exercise, no temptations. John wishes Billy Lopez had stuck to running.

The worst of it is – Rod watches him back.

::

 

Teyla and John understand one another. But it doesn't mean they talk. Oh no. They leave that to the rest of their team – Ford and Rod, they could talk the hind leg off a donkey if you let them, but John and Teyla, they manage with a few signs. The wry twist of the lips, an arched eyebrow, the cock of the head. They both find it fun. It helps that it drives Rod insane, although Ford doesn't seem to care, he just thinks they're both quiet types. John would love to know why Teyla is this way – what there is in her background or family that's turned her so solitary and taciturn. He's met Charin, and Halling, and his son Jinto – silence is not an Athosian characteristic, particularly, just something special to Teyla. But, of course, to ask would be to break their bond, and he doesn't want to do that, not when it gets to Rod like it does, although he never says.

On this day, John is with Teyla, when Rod comes to find him. Her head is bowed, her hair parting at the nape of her neck, both hands on her knees. John is facing her in a similar position, as they breathe in and out, the meditation helping John's natural inclination to suppress… everything. It's very useful.

Rod barrels though the door already talking. His presence is like a splinter under John's skin, something he can't just ignore, even though Rod immediately falls respectfully silent. Teyla opens her eyes and with a blink, informs John that it is all right, he can go. If he wants to.

John holds position for a few more seconds, just enough for him to feel the simmer of energy under Rod's skin, the crawl of impatience. Then he moves, fluidly pulling himself to his feet, before facing Teyla, as she too gets up. They touch foreheads, and Teyla whispers beneath the curtain of her hair, "Be careful, John."

It's enough to make him suck in a shocked breath. It must be important, for her to use actual speech – particularly with him. His skin begins to creep, and his scalp to prickle. Fight or flight gearing up. Chemicals and adrenaline pushing his heart rate higher. He wonders what she knows.

Rod keeps a light banter going as they move through the city. John is hard pushed to come up with replies, but Rod doesn't seem to notice. They take a transporter and Rod presses for a section of the city that's off limits for John's security clearance. Rod assures him he'll take responsibility, even as John reaches for his earpiece to confirm it. He will not be compromised so easily. Grodin's voice laughingly assures him that it's ok.

The humour in Grodin's voice worries him too – Peter is not a man given to lightheartedness. But everything about this little foray screams trap. John doesn't trust Rod – he doesn't trust anyone. But surely this is too public. Rod isn't making a play. This is something else…

They walk out into a fluted echoing room. Atlantean architecture soars up into shadows, and there are numbers of short stubby… vehicles? – lining the walls. Rod turns to him and his eyes gleam.

"I finally got you sanctioned, Sheppard. It makes sense, since you've got the natural gene. If you'll pardon the pun – you're the natural choice."

Rod's tone is rich with self-deprecation because, of course, John will forgive him his slight levity. People always do. John stares, trying to work out the angle. Trying to understand.

Rod rests a hand on his shoulder, companionably, and it feels hot, like his flesh is being marked. John would pull away, but that would look worse, and anyway, Rod's fingers are digging in deceptively hard. This is important somehow. He tugs John forward, towards one of the stubby machines.

"We call them Gateships. Since they're ships that fly through the gate," says Rod.

John doesn't smile.

"We thought… I thought that you would like to try flying one."

He's still got his hand on John's shoulder, dragging him on, up the lowered ramp, and into the dark belly of the beast, drawing him into the cockpit, pushing him into the pilot's seat. John can barely comprehend, his heart is pounding too loudly, he wants to shout or scream his confusion, but he can't, he can never…

"John," says Rod, "Think the ship on."

And he does, overwhelmed suddenly with the clear rush of information that accompanies the brightly lit control panel, and the blossoming HUD. The ship wants to talk to him, is _eager_ to convey energy levels, and equipment logs, upgrades and schematics, all the myriad details that lets a craft of the Ancients fly. That her _pilot_ must know. It's beautiful, and staggering, and John's mouth is dry, his eyes tightly closed. This is like the Chair, but instead of feeling distant power writ large, this is intensely personal, this is a promise, a commitment so real he can almost taste it. This ship… he could fly her now, he can feel it. He could take her up into wide open skies, right this second.

It's too much. John rips himself away from the ship, from Rod's grasping hand, and stands in the suddenly dim space. It's like a kind of blindness – to know what he's been missing in intimate painful detail, and then to suddenly be bereft once more. It's cruelty beyond measure. John stares blankly at Rod, who doesn't understand. Who actually looks pleased, as though he's given John a gift, and not just another weapon they can use against him, if he lets them. John can read Rod, for once, and it's plain he doesn't mean to be obtuse, Rod's too happy. He's satisfied that he can give John something that he loves, excited that John will realise a childhood dream at last, hopelessly eager that it's Rod himself who can give John this wonderful present, and he hasn't _realised_…

John can tell the instant that Rod gets it. It doesn't take very long – John's grateful for Rod's intelligence. But then a stupid man could never get away with all that Rod gets away with. John's thankful now that it takes no time at all. John watches Rod's mouth tighten a little, tilting sideways, and he watches Rod's eyes widen and then narrow. He's glad that the light is low in here, cameras will hardly pick up anything.

Most of all, John is stripped raw by the knowledge that Rod planned this. For him. He must have asked for security clearance days or weeks ago. He must have anticipated, and cajoled, and argued for this. Perhaps even put himself in danger for this amazing chance, this stupidly insane gift. He didn't have to do that. There is nothing to be gained by this. Nothing but John's happiness.

It's a thing that sits in John's gut, and breaks him.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally, as he takes another step away. "I can't… I… just _can't_."

But for the first time in a long time, he wishes that he could.

::

 

John never knows where they're going. Off-world mission information is imparted only at the very last minute, and John isn't surprised. He would argue that it doesn't give him enough time to pack for specific conditions, but he's a mathematician – if he has a pen and paper, he's ready to go. Cold-weather or hot-weather gear is provided as necessary, but as a gesture, John begins to pack an extra pair of socks.

He practices with his weaponry late at night, sometimes early in the morning. Any time he thinks that he can avoid Rod. John's beginning to get a reputation as a late-riser, after he keeps showing up in the labs scrubbing his hair and blinking, but better that than any more compromising ideas. The thought of any of those potentially disastrous situations makes John's breath come faster, causes heat to pool low in his belly. He's grateful that Rod doesn't push it. He's stopped making an effort to seek John out. He doesn't ambush him in the armoury. John is glad. Really.

MX3-847 is no different. Rod throws his pack to him in the Gateroom, and automatically, John velcros his tablet into its position. Rod's eyes wander all over him, but that's normal too, a team-mate looking out for another team mate. John does the same for Teyla, and then nods in response to her imperceptible smile. They move out, Ford chattering away to Rod as usual.

The village is friendly, which is a mercy. John has discovered he's distressingly good at violence, which would disturb him more, except that Ford seems to actually admire his proficiency. John doesn't want to stand out, doesn't want to shine, but if he absolutely must, it's best that it's in an acceptable field. And, after all, dealing death has always been acceptable.

Apparently the Kradon have a collection of sacred – potentially Ancient – artifacts that they are happy to have the Lanteans look at, once the visitors have been purified. Of course, they have, John thinks, and glances nervously towards the Gate. He really hopes that the Kradon's purification ritual is more politically acceptable that the last one. Ford wouldn't even let him read the official report on that one.

But apparently things are fine. A ritual cleansing of the body, in an environment segregated by sex. Teyla disappears with a maiden of the village, smiling faintly at them in reassurance. Rod looks at Ford, and says, "Protocol 34?"

"Oh yeah," says Ford, and takes off after her.

John stares at Rod, who's almost smirking – it gives John a very bad feeling.

"Protocol 34 was introduced after Sergeant Stackhouse was kidnapped and had to be bought at auction," says Rod, and John wonders how he hasn't managed to hear the gossip on that one. "No team-mate shall be left alone in an unproved environment. It's Ford's turn – he can be ritually cleansed later."

They're shown to a clean wooden cabin, the floors worn smooth with use. They divest themselves of tac vest and pack, of BDUs and boots. They wrap themselves in the white linens the Kradon have left them. John feels himself flush, knowing that Rod could be watching. He keeps his head turned away.

Rod piles everything together and sets the motion-sensor. If anything's disturbed they'll hear the alarm for up to half a mile. Rod straightens then and stretches, shoulders pulling back, muscles tensing and releasing. John can't look away. He tightens the linen wrapped around his waist.

The cleansing ritual involves something very like a sweat lodge. They are shown into another wooden cabin, this one without windows, and they are shown the water and dipper for the hot stones, already glowing a cherry red. It's a dry heat, and John feels the sweat on his neck disappear as soon as it tries to form. His skin tingles, and he blinks rapidly, his eyes dry.

The Kradon close the door, and they are in darkness, lit only by the glow of the fire stones. John sees a flash of teeth, Rod smiling, just before he pours the water on. Steam billows up and John gasps, the shock of the humidity, and the heat, and Rod's proximity, all combining to have him feel almost faint.

"Sit down," says Rod, "Before you fall down." He grabs John's arm, and his hand is sweat-slick and solid. He drags John to the bench, and the wood smacks the back of John's thighs, as he's pulled to meet it. Heat curls up his legs, and, incongruously, John shivers. Rod doesn't let go of his arm.

"So you see," Rod says, his voice quiet now, almost a whisper, "We're in a sauna on an alien world, light years away from the chain of command, completely divested of everything we usually carry. Completely free, John. As free as we can be."

And John turns to Rod, what he can see of him through the steam, and John's hands are damp, his skin naked and raw. Rod is inches away, but he hasn't moved. John wants him to, wants it to be Rod that makes them do this, that forces John to respond. That's deniable, isn't it? That's something he can claim later. But Rod isn't moving. He just sits there, his fingers lightly clasping John's wrist. It's like a manacle, the weight of it bearing him down, and John gasps again, his heart trip-hammering.

Rod's made it easy for him, for them. If John wants this, all he has to do is reach out. But he doesn't know if he can do it. He doesn't know if he even wants to, after so long.

Except he's lying. He's desperate for it – for the freedom to simply touch, and not have to look over his shoulder. Rod's hand on his arm is a promise, a simple offer, and John wants to take it, he does…

John slides free, and with a sigh, Rod leans back. It's the sigh that undoes him. John doesn't want Rod disappointed in him. When has that come to matter so much? With a lunge, John leans across Rod, his elbows brushing the cotton on the other man's knees, to take the ladle and pour on another dipper of water. Steam explodes, and John can't see a thing through the boiling curtain of fog. He shivers again as he leans on Rod's thighs. He turns, trying to ignore what else the cotton covers, and brushes skin; an arm, a torso. That's it. This could be an accident, right? Just a slip, or a coincidence. It's dark, after all.

It's tentative, the hand that he lays onto flesh he can barely even see. It could be chance. John could just be finding out who else is with him, here in darkness, when he slides his hand up, gliding on wet skin, along the strong planes of a chest, hair stirring briefly as his fingers travel, collarbone sharp under his hand. He might not be able to hear the abrupt intake of breath when his finger brushes a nipple, he might not realise that the other's body is held rigid, stiff and unyielding, or maybe so controlled it could be frightening, if John thinks much about it. But that is the point – if John doesn't think it is so much easier. If he doesn't – for once – let himself think, he can let that hand travel along a jaw line, with its prick of stubble, to the nape of a neck, to stir the short hairs there, and then he can pull.

The room is full of wet heat, what's a little more? A mouth opening under his could be anything, the arms that grab his own might be losing their balance, it might be an emergency, he might need to cry out… When a hand shoves its way under cotton and grasps his cock, he might need to stifle the broken noises in another's shoulder, to mouth the skin there, tasting salt and bitter, bitter loss.

John doesn't want to think, because if he does, the anguish might overwhelm him. How can he let himself have this, pleasure and pain both, knowing he will never have it again? Of course, he can't. So it's not real. It's an accident in the dark. It's a collision. It's fate.

That's all.

::

 

When he was a child John wanted to fly more than anything else in the world. And then he grew up. He discovered that there are much worse things than not learning to fly. And much better. He's stepped through wormholes since then, and seen the stars, and felt the thrum of Atlantis matching his heartbeat. He's been cautious, and paranoid, and he's paid attention to detail. Most of all he's _survived_.

He steps out of the Kradon's ritual a new man.

He wants to know exactly what he's been surviving _for_.

The sun is rising, and the air is fresh and sweet. Of course, it is, thinks John. He glances at Rod who is rummaging through their untouched packs for fresh clothes. Rod is humming. There is a red mark on his shoulder, and John flushes. He wants to touch it. His hands clench at his sides. He takes a deep breath, and the cold air makes him cough.

Rod glances at him, slyly, and then throws his pants at him. It surprises John, but the incongruity makes him crack up, a quick bark of snorting laughter. Rod looks more surprised than John.

They trudge over to the Kradon Chief, who gives them breakfast, and then leads them to the artifacts. John trails behind. This is Rod's thing really, and John is still thinking. He's good at that, done it all his life, until last night. And he's smart, maybe not as smart as Rod, but it's close, and John works for it. Always has. He's never thrown himself into anything so dangerous before. He's never wanted anything so much before.

John feels like he's on a precipice. And he's deciding whether it's worth flinging himself off. Maybe the energy creature taught him something, because he's never shown any suicidal tendencies in the past.

The Chief leaves them with a bow, and Rod bends down to properly look the artifacts over. He's checking them for energy readings. John knows that Rod will turn to him with a grin if he finds anything he thinks John will find interesting. John won't even have to say much of anything – he hardly ever does. Talking – bantering – with Rod, has always seemed far too dangerous. He misses it. How can he miss something he's never really had?

Rod's shoulders are hunched, but John knows exactly where the mark is. The back of Rod's neck is pale gold in the sunlight, and John knows that the hairs there are soft and fine. He's filled with such wonder over these simple things.

Rod turns, and John puts out a hand before he can say anything, before he can change his mind, or over-analyse himself. His palm covers the hidden mark that he made in the dark, and Rod freezes. His eyes are as blue as the wide open skies.

"I think…" says John, "I think… I'm going to start up a Lantean Chapter of Mensa when we go home."

"All right," says Rod.

"Mensa is a meeting place for intellectuals from all walks of life. It has no political bias, or agenda. It's a society to promote social interaction and mental stimulation."

"Yes," says Rod, gently, "I know."

"Don't you think we need a place like that on Atlantis? Don't you think we all need a place like that?"

Rod doesn't have a clever comeback, for once, or a witty deflection. That says something, John reckons.

Rod holds out his hand. In it there's a twin to the green brooch that started all this off, all those weeks ago. Crookedly, Rod smiles again, but somehow it's blinding, and full of hope. "And we'll have one, eventually. Trust me, will you?"

John smiles back, and the world doesn't end.

"I do," says John, and clasps his hand over Rod's, over his own personal shield.


End file.
